


Patsy and the artist

by lazyboo



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyboo/pseuds/lazyboo
Summary: During Patsy and Delia's trip to Paris, they visit the Louvre.  One particular painting brings back memories for Patsy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I saw an exhibition of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera's work yesterday. Last night I was lying in bed wondering whether it was possible for CtM and Frida to overlap.  
> And so baby Patsy met Frida.  
> I know very little about art. I do know that I love Kahlo's work and have admired it and her for a very long time. Artsy people, please excuse my lack of proper vocabulary to talk about art. Indulge my flight of fancy.

It was 1939. Patsy was six years old. Ecstatically excited to be travelling to Europe after her Mama had told her so much about it.

They had traveled via every conceivable mode of transportation. It had taken over a month. But they had finally arrived. In Paris.

Patsy’s mother loved art. Their home was always full of colourful paintings and local creations. They would spend hours at markets around Singapore and always her mother purchased something to commemorate any new city they would visit. They had batik from Batavia and shadow puppets from Jogjakarta in the East Indies. Ceramics from Kuala Lumpur in the Malay Peninsula. Painted scenes from Saigon in French Indochina. Printed silk screens from Krung Thep in Siam.

She'd been talking non stop about the Louvre since her father announced this trip to Paris.

And Patsy was excited to see some of the paintings her mother has described, had preserved painstakingly in the large, beautiful books that she brought out only on special occasions. The humidity of Singapore wreaked havoc on the English bindings, so it was a rare treat indeed to be allowed to thumb through the artworks. The prospect of seeing some of those paintings with her own eyes had Patsy quivering with anticipation.

Her father’s diplomatic and business meetings absorbed days and days of his time. Days and days for Patsy and her mother and her sister to wander around Paris, seeing all the sights that the city was famous for. She marvelled at the feat of engineering that is the Eiffel Tower. Gazed, entranced, at the colours created by the Rose windows at Notre Dame on a sunny afternoon. Touched the base of Cleopatra’s Needle reverently.

Her mother explained to them that the tall, narrow pyramid was called an obelisk. That it actually had nothing to do with Cleopatra. That it predated the Ptolemy empire by many many centuries and was built for a female pharaoh called Hatshepsut.

Patsy was fascinated. A female pharaoh! Who knew such a thing was possible?

Finally (finally!) her father was finished with his business and they were able to attend the Louvre. While they were there, viewing wonder after wonder (although Patsy was quite bemused by just how small the Mona Lisa was!) she overheard her father talking about a surprise he had organised for Mama.

There was an exhibition of Mexican artwork in Paris that he had arranged for them to attend. This was a rare and unexpected treat, to see some art from the New World. Patsy had no idea what to expect.

When they arrived she was disappointed to learn that it was only one artist showing paintings. The other was a photographer. Photographs were all well and good, but they were stark and monochromatic. Patsy adored the colour and texture of paintings. She loved standing close and being mesmerised by tiny details like brush strokes and layers and she loved the smell of paints and lacquer.

Her sister was feeling unwell and grizzly on the day they saw the _Mexique_ exhibition. Mama had to spend much of her time trying to comfort and silence Lizzie’s grumbling complaints, and so Patsy was left free to wander around the Gallerie Colle at her own pace.

Patsy was entranced. Her six year old brain struggled to absorb the raw, visceral colours, the grim images. The blood. The implacable stare of the artist. Because many of the paintings were self portraits, and the artist’s view of herself was uncompromising. Patsy found she couldn't look away.

She found herself before a wonderfully vibrant and shiny painting. It was all blues and pinks and yellows and reds and the artist stared at her from within a border of flowers and birds.

She had found many of the paintings distressing. They were filled with blood and pain and they hurt her to look at. She'd seen the Great Masters at the Louvre. Seen the battles and bodies and blood and it had been confronting but these paintings communicated so much personal suffering.

This portrait, however, seemed more about defiance. The artist was presenting herself, proclaiming “This is who I am.” Patsy gazed at her stern expression. Her fantastically curved eyebrows, like wings framing her dark eyes. At the shadows around her mouth. The detail in her hair.

As she stood, a woman moved beside her. A slight limp, accentuated by the tap of a cane. It was enough to pique Patsy’s attention, and she turned, curious.

Found herself staring up into a shockingly recognisable face.

“I see you looking at my portrait.” Her English was heavily accented. “What do you stare at so intently?”

Patsy could only gawk for a long moment. Fascinated. The woman was short, much shorter than Father and Mama. She wore a long colourful skirt, and had a bright shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her dark hair braided elaborately.

The woman laughed as Patsy continued to stare. A harsh, rough burst of humour.

“My name is Frida. What's yours?”

“Patsy.” It came out as a squeak. “My name is Patsy.” Her manners, drummed into her since her earliest memory, kicked in. “I'm pleased to meet you.”

She laughed again. Gentler this time.

“So Patsy. What do you think of my paintings? You like this one?” She gestured to the wall.

“I love it.” She was torn between looking back at the painting, and continuing to stare at Frida. “I love them all.” A pause. “Most of them.”

Another laugh, this time accompanied by an intrigued look.

“Some of my work is not so suitable for children, no?”

“They make me hurt. I see so much pain.”

A firm hand grasped her shoulder. Squeezed, before touching her cheek for a brief moment.

“You are very perceptive, child.” Dark eyes stared into hers for a long moment. Before softening into a smile. “And what do you like about this one?”

“It's fierce. And I like the colours. The colours are my favourite.”

“Fierce…” Reflective. “Well Patsy, you are not the only one who likes it. The Louvre has bought this one. So you can see it again next time you come to Paris.”

Another squeeze of her shoulder, and then Frida walked away. Leaning on her cane with each rolling step. Patsy watched her depart. Wanted to run after her and ask her an endless list of questions. But she recognised the closed look. Her Father had made that clear to her many times. The conversation was over.

 

* * *

 

 

Standing before _The Frame_ now, Patsy could vividly recollect her meeting with Frida Kahlo. It was quite shocking to think about, that the vibrant woman from her childhood had died so young. In so much agony.

Patsy hadn’t thought about the artist for many years. Her childhood memories overridden by the war. By the internment camp. By her mother and sister’s deaths.

It was only when she and Delia had decided to come to Paris - when she’d started researching all the things they were going to see together - that Patsy had remembered her meeting. Had looked up a history of Frida Kahlo’s life and been saddened to learn of her pain. Of her passing. Wondered whether Frida’s painting was still on display in the Louvre.

She had already resolved to take Delia to all the places she had visited with her Mama. It brought back so many painful memories. But it also overlaid them with a golden patina of happiness, at sharing this with Delia. As they toured the city Patsy could feel herself relaxing. Could feel decades of tension and sorrow being soothed by the balm of Delia’s affection. Of her unbridled enthusiasm.

Delia had always been so careful with Patsy. Respectful of Patsy’s boundaries about her past. Never pushed (which was astonishing given how bossy Delia was about everything else). And in the calm joy of Delia’s support, Patsy found herself wanting to share. Regaled Delia with tales not only of their Paris trip but also of the fond recollections that were starting to resurface of their life in Singapore.

Delia had quickly become accustomed to Patsy’s stories, and so now, as Patsy stood before _The Frame_ , mute, she could sense Delia’s impatience.

“Just give me a moment, Deels.”

It was almost surreal, staring at this painting. She half expected to turn and see Frida standing beside her. Dark eyes curious and penetrating. She let the colours wash over her, let her childlike impressions of the painting merge with her adult perspective. Marvelled at the strength and self-assuredness of the woman who had captured herself so resolute, so honest. Able to overcome tragedy and grief and suffering to create artwork that was so intimate, so emotive. So evocative.

Finally released a deep breath and reached for Delia’s hand. They could do that here, in Paris. Europeans were so relaxed about physical affection. Patsy wished for the hundredth time that they could do the same back in Poplar.

“I met her once, you know?”

She could feel Delia’s incredulous gaze. Couldn’t bring herself to look away from the painting yet. Squeezed Delia’s hand instead.

“The time we were in Paris. Father had arranged for Mama to see her exhibition. She always did love the primitive, natural artworks of the local peoples. To see art from Mexico was a rare and strange opportunity.” A pause. “Her art was like nothing I’d ever seen. So much colour and passion. It was so personal.” She chuckled quietly. “Of course, I was six years old at the time. I couldn’t have verbalised it then. But it moved me deeply.” Another pause. “It saddened me. I could feel her pain, through her art. I’ve never known anything like it.”

She finally dragged her gaze away from the painting. Turned to see rapt blue eyes staring at her. Urging her wordlessly to continue.

“I was staring at this very painting when I sensed someone beside me. I looked up, and it was the artist. She asked me how I liked the painting. She told me I was perceptive.” A breath. “Told me I could see the painting again the next time I came to Paris.”

“And here you are.”

“And here I am indeed.”

“That’s amazing, Pats.”

In unison they turned back to the painting. Gazed at it together for long moments. Patsy squeezed Delia’s hand. She’d thank her later for indulging her. For understanding. Right now, she just wanted to look. And remember.


End file.
